


I Would If I Could

by FelicisQuill2



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Doctor Clarke, Dystopia, Episode: s01e08 Day Trip, F/M, Flarke if you squint, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt Bellamy, Jealous Finn, Jealousy, Missing Scene, Prompt Fill, Romance, Season 1 Episode 8, Season/Series 01, Smut, Tent Sex, day trip, dropship era, screw everyone else come with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicisQuill2/pseuds/FelicisQuill2
Summary: Set during the Day Trip episode after Clarke and Bellamy speak under the tree but before they talk to Jaha about pardoning Bellamy. What began as a sweet missing moment embracing the released Day Trip full script evolved into full on Bellarke hooking up because I read a prompt on Bellarkeprompts on Tumblr.----He’s on the other side of the campfire at dinner actually chuckling at something Miller is saying. She’s too far away to hear anything, but she’s momentarily distracted by the glow of the flames throwing ripples against his bronze skin. That’s when it happens. He catches her eye for the first time in days, and she blushes, dropping her head immediately.She shifts her body toward Harper who is excitedly chatting away about the possibility of seeing real live snow soon. Yet the heat of his gaze lingers on her neck. She gulps and rubs her knee.Get a grip, Clarke. You need to stop it. Just tell him tomorrow you know it didn’t mean anything, and get back to leading together, so you can survive the damn winter.





	1. Between the Raindrops

**Author's Note:**

> What happened between the tree scene in Day Trip and Bellamy and Clarke's conversation with Jaha always intrigued me. They seemed so in sync during the video chat that I figured they must have discussed what they were going to say in advance. Especially with Clarke saying, "It's time," to him while he's trying to make amends with Octavia. 
> 
> Second chapter came from the prompt on Bellarke Fanfiction's Tumblr: "Bellarke having sex, but Finn knocks on the door in the middle of it and Bellamy makes Clarke stay quiet and keeps going." 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this! As always, comments are life, and I love getting them! If you have an idea for a Bellarke story you'd like me to write, shoot it my way!

Bellamy clears his throat expectantly, hunching his shoulders against the steady rain soaking through his dark jacket. But the blonde young woman doesn’t look up from the book on her lap. She appears thoroughly absorbed in it, even though only two makeshift lanterns light her tent. It must be hard to see the print, yet the lanterns cast a soft golden glow around the space. So he wraps his knuckles lightly against one of the wooden poles holding together the tan fabric which stretches out in two opposing directions to form the roof of her shelter.

“You wanted to see me?” he asks from this quasi-entryway, shaking his head lightly to dispel the gathering water droplets forming in his curls.

His voice sounds deeper, gruff and pulled taut from Dax pressing a gun into his windpipe only three hours before as they fought each other in the forest dirt.

Clarke jolts at the sound of it.

“Yeah! Come in, sorry!” she jumps up from her rumpled cot, snapping shut an olive green, tattered volume entitled _Edible Wild Plants of Eastern North America_. “I didn’t mean to leave you out in the rain.”

She smiles up at him, but it’s shy, fleeting. A ghost of an upward curve, which pulls at her lips and then disappears into the grim line of her mouth as she takes in the sight of him. Dark, purple bruises rise up on his face, and the promise of a deep cut pokes out above the neckline of his shirt near his collarbone.

“You’re going to need stitches for that,” she says, stepping closer and gesturing toward his neck. She reaches out to pull down at the neck of his thin cotton shirt carefully as bits of clotted blood allow the fabric to cling to his skin. “I didn’t realize it was so bad when we were in the woods.”

“If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy,” Bellamy says darkly.

Clarke raises her eyes to his and tilts her head to the side, wearing a closed, yet somehow still disapproving, expression. Her eyes remind him of the robin’s eggs Octavia pointed out a few days ago in a nest near the river.

“What, Princess?” he shrugs. “Too soon to joke about the guy who tried to kill us?”

“Take off your jacket and shirt, and go sit down,” Clarke replies tersely. She gestures toward the only rickety chair in the tent, which stands next to a bucket, a few clean rags, and her medical bag.

He narrows his eyes momentarily but then carefully peels off his jacket and tosses it on her bed. She busies herself by walking over to her bag and pulling supplies out of it with her back to him.

His fingertips attempt to tug the bottom of his shirt up over his head, but he grunts at the effort. There is another serious wound across his upper back and left shoulder caused by a jagged rock digging into him as he fought Dax. It makes certain movements nearly impossible.

“Uh, Clarke?” he trails off.

She turns to look at him from the floor, “Yeah?’

“Could you help me . . . pull this off?”

She looks puzzled.

“I don’t want to have to cut it. I don’t have many good shirts,” he admits.

She’s back on her feet and at his side within seconds.

“You can’t lift your arm? What’s wrong?” She pushes her palms against his sides and spins him slowly then runs her fingers lightly across his back and shoulder blades until he hisses.

She gingerly crumples the bottom of his shirt up along his back toward his neck until she can see the rock wound cutting across his bronze muscles.

“I can wrap this one up with gauze and surgical tape,” she promises. “It’ll heal in a couple weeks.”

He knows his skin is warm where she touches him because her hand feels comparably cooler. It causes him to shudder involuntarily.

“Uh, great, thanks,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact with her as she steps back in front of him.

“Sit down, and I’ll help you with your shirt.”

He sits gingerly on the chair and with Clarke’s help, forces his right fist back through the armhole to slide the shirt over his head. Clarke steps between his knees and pulls it over his head delicately, walking around him and slipping it off his injured arm.

“There, that wasn’t so bad,” she says cheerfully.

But then she takes in the sight of his bruised torso, and her face falls. Blackening bruises stretch across his ribs, and a yellowish liquid oozes out from the gash near his neck.

“Bellamy, I’m so sorry.” For a moment she appears to forget herself and skims the pads of her fingertips over his jawline. Her cheeks instantly redden as she realizes what she’s doing. He barely breathes, thrown by the close proximity of her, watching the golden waves of her hair glint in the lantern light.

“Oh,” she says softly and abruptly pulls her fingers away when he gazes into her eyes. It’s too real, too . . . _intimate_.

A moment later, she is all business again, wiping down the wound on his back with antibiotic ointment and wrapping gauze and medical bandages around the damaged area with surgical tape. She leans down and rings out one of the rags, letting the water drip back into the bucket.

“I just got this from the well, so it’ll be free of debris,” she juts out her chin toward the bucket. “You were right about the well – it’s been a good source of clean water.”

Bellamy nods slightly, allowing her to dab at the cuts across his cheekbones with the damp cloth. She rubs a dab of ointment over one of the more menacing scrapes and sticks a Band-Aid on top of it.

“Ok,” she takes in a deep breath. He watches her ribcage balloon out and collapse back in as she does it. She’s inches away, even when she pulls back from him to admire her work. A faint scent of vanilla wafts around her. “Now it’s time to stitch up you up. It’s going to hurt a little bit, but I’ll disinfect the area with some rubbing alcohol first, all right? I know you’ll be fine.”

She smiles at him for real this time, and he can do nothing but return the gesture.

“Clarke?” he groans out when she pierces his skin with the needle and thread.

“Hold still. It’ll be over in a few seconds,” she replies, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she threads the needle back and forth across the chasm of ripped flesh.

“What are we going to do about Jaha?” his question comes out more forcefully then he intended. Yet the chaotic, guilt-ridden thoughts that ricochet around his brain with no release day after day sound much harsher.

“Right, I’ve been thinking about that,” Clarke replies, tying off the string and reaching onto her bed for more gauze to place over the sewn-up cut. “Jaha is a reasonable man. Once he hears about how you’ve led the building of the fence and helped set up the flares and are planning to train everyone to fight against the hostile grounders with the guns we found, I know he’ll –”

“Clarke! I shot the man. I hate to burst your privileged princess bubble, but he’s a power-hungry dictator who want me dead,” Bellamy snaps at her. “He floats people first and asks questions later.”

“Shhh,” she tries to hush him, but it comes out more like a hiss. “I know you’re upset, but calm down. I don’t want these stitches to burst open.” She pats a fuzzy bandage over the stitch marks that plot a course across the curve of his shoulder like a winding trail. “If you think appealing to his better nature isn’t good enough, think of something smarter.”

“Like what?”

She's quiet for a moment, deep in thought, but then raises her eyebrows at him. 

“Like do you have something he needs?”

Bellamy pauses for a few moments, mulling it over.

“Yeah. Yeah I do,” he says finally.

“Good. What is it?” she asks pointedly. 

“I have the name of the person on the Ark who wanted him dead,” a spark lights up in his eyes.

“Yes,” she breathes, hand still wrapped warmly around his bandage as the smile blossoms on her face. “And . . . the only way he’s going to find out who that person is is if he gives you total immunity.”

“You think my life is worth that information?” he asks her, trying to keep the doubt out of his voice.

Her lips purse in a thin line as a crease settles into the space between her eyebrows. At this distance, he can see her eyes welling up a little.  
“Of course your life is worth that,” she replies.

“I want to protect my sister, Clarke. I want to . . . help the 100 survive here. But what if Jaha doesn’t see it that way? My life doesn't matter to him.”

She takes a step back as he lets his hands fall to his knees and leans over his thighs, observing her closely. His gaze is turning her face warm. 

Not knowing what to say, she stays silent, looking out toward the dark woods. She knows she can't promise Jaha will definitely see things their way, as much as she may want to.

“Maybe it would’ve been better to run than deal with whatever they decide to do to me once the Ark comes down,” he says at last.

That grabs her attention. 

“Hey, enough of that. You matter, ok? To me. To everybody here. I think the plan’s going to work because,” she allows herself a grin, “you’re right. Jaha likes to stay in control. He’ll want to know who has it in for him on the Ark. And you do deserve a second chance, Bellamy. You’re a good person.”

She steps a little closer to him and squeezes his uninjured bicep tentatively.

“I thought that’s what I was doing in the woods . . . asking for my second chance,” he says softly, glancing up at her.

A rosy hue stains her porcelain cheeks.

“Bellamy, you knew we couldn’t abandon this camp!" she says passionately. "We couldn’t survive on our own – we don’t even know what’s out there . . ."

"So what? Afraid of an adventure?" he smirks at her. "Don't you think I'd keep you safe?" 

She scoffs but looks out into the driving rain, and when she turns back to him, her expression is milder. 

"That's not the point. Look, it was a . . . _tempting_ offer to run away from everything with you, ok? Is that what you want to hear?"

"Not if you don't mean it, and you're just saying it to shut me up," he retorts, anger bleeding into his words. 

"Like I could shut you up," she fires back. He stares at her for a long moment, and she breaks first and smiles at him. "I wouldn't want to do that. You've got a flair for speeches."

He laughs outright.

She pulls at a loose thread at the edge of her tan blouse. "And about leaving with you . . ."

"Yeah?" he's trying so hard not to sound hopeful. 

"I would if I could," she flicks her eyes up to his for the briefest of moments, voice wavering slightly. 

He's not quite sure he heard her right, but he reaches out his hand to wrap around the curve of her waist and stands up to his full height nonetheless. She tries to inch backward, but his hand slides to the small of her back and draws her closer to him. Her eyes dart across his face and gaze into his warm brown eyes before she allows her hands to graze across the uninjured portion of his back hesitantly. They look at each other for a few suspended, surreal moments. Then he watches her bite her lower lip and suddenly he needs to taste it. His lips collide with hers, soft but powerful and urgent, and she opens her mouth under his allowing him to deepen their kiss. He tastes like something sweet, and her heart begins to pick up speed as he pulls the full length of her body up against his.

They don’t hear the approaching footsteps squishing through the mud outside over the sound of the rainstorm.

Finn pulls open the tent flap suddenly, barreling in and speaking in a rush.

“Clarke! We need to talk about the guns you and Bellamy brought back!”

She pulls away from him abruptly, touching her fingertips to her lips subconsciously and glancing from Bellamy to Finn in shock.

A slow, lazy grin spreads across Bellamy’s face. He raises his eyebrows at her suggestively, then walks toward the exit, clapping a stunned Finn on the shoulder as he goes. “Yeah, why don’t you two do that. I’ve got to go talk to Miller about guard duty anyway.”

He pauses at the tent’s entrance to look back at Clarke, who still hasn’t moved from her spot as if under a spell.

“See you later, Princess.”

A shiver runs up her spine. She finds herself hoping that sooner comes before later.


	2. Keep Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt From BellarkePrompts on Tumblr: "Bellarke having sex, but Finn knocks on the door in the middle of it, and Bellamy makes Clarke stay quiet and keeps going." Here you go!

Winter is coming.

 

It’s been a week and a half since Jaha pardoned Bellamy, and the wind slices into camp every evening, cold and unyielding. Jasper and Monty work hard to keep the bonfires blazing after dinner, but Clarke sees how the younger kids shiver anyway, wrapping their threadbare jackets tightly around themselves.

 

She used to paint gorgeous autumn scenes on the Ark based on books she’d read. The leaves on her handsome, sturdy trees would be tinged and streaked with rich oranges and ruby reds. No harvest painting was complete without bushels of apples and scarecrows whose expressions always appeared more cheerful than menacing where they dotted her hilly landscapes.

 

But the Earth is not a painting.

 

From her stance on the ground peering up, the limbs of the forest trees bend and creak like mourning lovers as their dried-out brown leaves cascade to the ground. They crunch under her boots everywhere she goes now. The sky seems much grayer, too. Gone are the late summer blue skies dappled with fluffy white clouds. It’s like a sheet of steel has descended over the camp.

 

As the season changes, she notices Bellamy become stricter with his trainees. Whenever she’s in earshot of him, he’s often barking orders at them to collect more wood to reinforce the fence or critiquing their shooting skills. Just yesterday, she overheard him asking a gangly, pimple-faced teen called Mason “how he expected to kill enough deer to last them through the winter when yesterday he almost shot Monroe?”

 

She knows Bellamy makes good points, but she doesn’t tell him this. To be honest, she hasn’t had an opportunity. They’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of sentences since the kiss in her tent. He approached her in the dropship three days later to say he was going out to lead a small hunting party. He brushed off her concerns he wasn’t healed enough to do it with the wave of his hand. She bit her lip hard, hands on her hips, and watched his broad shoulders march right down the ramp and across the dirt clearing until he was out of sight. The day after that, she told him over breakfast they needed to start scheduling firing practice for anyone interested in learning. He’d nodded curtly, and that was it.  

 

It’s not that it surprises her, exactly. She didn’t take Bellamy for the kind of guy who would talk about his feelings with _her_ of all people.

 

Except that he already had. Under the tree after he’d killed Dax and saved her life. She tells herself that’s what makes it strange.

 

It’s not that she misses his large, warm hands spanning her back which still tingles at the memory. She certainly doesn’t miss his soft lips or the taste of brown sugar (she’d had some once for her birthday on the Ark, so she knows what it’s like) that lingered after he’d disappeared into the night. No, it’s definitely none of that.

 

He’s on the other side of the campfire at dinner actually _chuckling_ at something Miller is saying. She’s too far away to hear anything, but she’s momentarily distracted by the glow of the flames throwing ripples against his bronze skin. That’s when it happens. He catches her eye for the first time in days, and she blushes, dropping her head immediately.

 

She shifts her body toward Harper who is excitedly chatting away about the possibility of seeing real live snow soon. Yet the heat of his gaze lingers on her neck. She gulps and rubs her knee.

 

_Get a grip, Clarke. You need to stop it. Just tell him tomorrow you know it didn’t mean anything, and get back to leading together, so you can survive the damn winter._

 

After she’s tossed the last of her dinner scraps into the flames, she heads back into the dropship, intent on cataloging the rest of the medical supplies she hasn’t gotten around to sorting through yet. Several minutes pass before a shadow crosses over the blue plastic bin where she’s elbow-deep in gauze pads and antiseptic spray.

 

“Clarke? We need to talk.”

 

She squeezes her eyes shut at the sound of his voice. But she wipes the grimace off her face in time to turn around and face him.

 

“Finn, we really don’t.”

 

“Yes we do! Bellamy’s already arming half the camp and teaching them to aim to kill when we should be trying to set up a truce with the grounders!”

 

She stares up into his face, eyes flashing.

 

“I know that. I asked him to do it,” she snaps back. “For all we know, the grounder’s already run home and told his people about all the weak points in our defenses! The grounder you helped to escape!” she points into his chest fiercely.

 

“Only after you let Bellamy torture him!” he bellows back, taking a step closer to her.

 

“Because he was going to let you _die_!” her anger rushes up to meet his, and she hates that tears are stinging the backs of her eyes.

 

He breathes heavily and runs a hand through his wavy hair, tugging it out of his face.

 

“Clarke, I--”

 

“Save it. I already told you, it’s fine.”

 

Her shoulders slump a little.

 

“But it’s not fine,” he reaches lightly for her forearm, but she jerks it back from him. “I feel like shit all the time. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. If I’d have known one day I’d see her again . . . ”

 

“You wouldn’t have fucked me?” Clarke supplies coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Isn’t that nice to know.”

 

“That’s not what I meant. I meant I cared about you, Clarke. I care about you. But I’ve always been there for Raven--”

 

“Something going on here, Princess?”

 

For once, Bellamy’s deep voice is a lifesaver.

 

“No, nothing at all,” she replies, stepping gracefully around Finn into a patch of light.

 

“Good. Because I need to talk to you. Now. Alone,” he meets Finn’s gaze evenly, not looking away until the other boy does.

 

Clarke gives a small nod and follows him out of the dropship toward his tent. It’s quieter now aside from a few of the guards on duty swapping jokes. The delinquents are mostly scattered around in their tents doing whatever it is they do before going to sleep. Clarke has her own tent and isn’t privy to their nighttime rituals of gossip, games, and hookups.

 

Bellamy stands stiffly at the edge of his tent, holding the flap open for her and gesturing her inside. She gets one glance at the star-strewn sky before the color orange overwhelms her senses. It’s the color of his tent walls, and it’s everywhere. There’s also a rather pleasant aroma of pine needles, musk, and that something sweet so distinctly _him_.

 

She turns on her heel abruptly as she hears the swish of a zipper, meaning Bellamy is sealing the flap behind him.

 

“What the hell is going on?” she demands.

 

He turns to her, smirking, and takes a step forward. Then another. She finds she’s backing up, although she’s not quite sure why. When her ass hits the edge of Bellamy’s makeshift bedside table she imagines he built himself if the roughness of the wood is any indication, she stares up into his dark eyes.

 

“I’m making good on my promise,” he explains, reaching out to run a hand along her arm.

 

She shivers.

 

“What promise is that?”

 

“That I’d come back for you later.”

 

“Oh,” the tiny sound is caught in her throat, but he sees her lick her lip anyway.

 

She watches his eyes watch her mouth, and then suddenly, his hands are pulling her toward his chest while her eyes flutter shut. And then his lips cover hers, and his tongue is doing the most delightful things inside of her mouth. She groans against her will when one of his hands cups her ass and squeezes it. But she grasps fistfulls of his worn shirt when the edge of his finger brushes up against her bra, causing a rush of heat in her core.

 

“Wait!” she huffs, pulling away from him and pressing a hand against his flat stomach, causing the edge of his mouth to quirk up. “You barely talk to me for over a week, and then you trick me into coming to your tent to maul me? _Why_ , Bellamy?”

 

He widens his eyes a little bit - they’re deep-space black now - and actually grins at her mischievously.

 

“I knew I could,” comes his smartass reply.

 

And of all the sexist, ridiculous, confusing answers he could have supplied, this is the one that turns her on the most. Because it’s a mirror of what she told him when he asked her to run away with him back in her rain-laden tent last week. But of course that’s not what she tells him.

 

“What the _fuck_ does that mean?” she whisper-shouts at him, deathly afraid to alert people to her presence in his tent at this hour.

 

He takes a step back, scratching the back of his neck. At least he has the decency to look a little sheepish.

 

“I thought . . . when you didn’t say anything about it the next day . . . I thought--”

 

“What?” she insists, stepping closer to him, trying to force his eyes to meet her own.

 

“I thought you weren’t interested. That you thought it was a mistake. Why would the Princess want a janitor turned criminal?” he shrugs casually, but she still picks up on the hurt in his voice. “I figured you might give Spacewalker another chance, so I backed off.”

 

“But then you heard us tonight?” Clarke supplies the rest, wrapping her hand around his wrist before letting it slide down and interlocking their fingers.

 

He jolts, completely surprised by the gesture.

 

“Well, umm, yeah,” he mumbles. “Didn’t sound like he was really your type anymore.”

 

“Lying cheaters usually aren’t,” she says wryly, eyes twinkling at him.

 

He smiles a little.

 

“How about gruff, overprotective jackasses who shoot their Chancellor to grab a seat on the first dropship going to Earth in a century?”

 

“Much more my speed,” her voice is full of laughter and sunshine as she reaches up on her tiptoes to seal her lips against his, curling her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck.

 

“Good,” she can feel his lips move against her jaw, and it makes her shudder pleasantly. “Because I’m tired of watching you across camp and not being able to _do_ anything about it.”

 

She leans into his open arms, letting him wrap them around her waist as he kisses down her neck.

 

“What were you going to do about it?” she can’t help herself.

 

“This.”

 

He lifts her into his arms as she laughs delightedly, locking her ankles around his hips for support. The thick furs draped across his bed cushion her fall, and he’s soon on top of her, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every square inch of bare skin he can find.

 

The glow of the one lantern in his tent illuminates her hair, making it shine like a halo around her face when he tucks a stray strand back behind her ear. She leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth, against the scar Dax left on his face, right against the dimple in his chin. When she draws back, she keeps her eyes on his while removing her light green top.

 

His palm turns upward and reaches out toward her. But he shakes his head swiftly, like knocking himself out of a daze, before drawing it back.

 

“It’s ok,” she murmurs to him. “I want you to touch me.”

 

The hesitancy melts away as he cups her breasts through the old black bra, stroking her sensitive skin with his thumbs. He hums happily at her sharp intake of breath. Then his lips latch to her neck, sucking the same maddening spot repeatedly and reaching around to unsnap the bra, so her breasts spill free. He latches his mouth to one nipple quickly, nibbling gently and swirling his tongue around it until she laces her fingers in his hair and tugs, arching against him.

 

His shirt and her pants fly off in a flurry of hands and limbs and fabric. The warmth of his chest against her own is her new favorite sensation when he seeks out her mouth for more deep, wet kisses.

 

“Clarke, Clarke,” he pants into her ear when her nimble fingers start working on undoing his belt. “I have guard duty in 15 minutes.”

 

“We better hurry then,” she rasps in a way that makes his dick twitch in anticipation as she yanks his belt free from his pants.

 

He kicks his boots off, and she sits up briefly to untie her laces - it takes too long because his hands keep wandering along the creamy skin of her inner thigh while she works. But then she’s shimmying out of her panties and fumbling with the snap of his pants, eager to help him shuck them off. His dark blue boxers are clearly tented, and her own pupils expand when she dances a finger across the bulge.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice kind of desperately destroyed, which she finds adorable.

 

“Take ‘em off, Blake,” she urges, leaning up to kiss his lips.

 

“Shit, Princess,” he breathes against her skin when he lies back on top of her, hitching her knees up along his sides as her thighs spread naturally for him.

 

He slips a finger into her while simultaneously teasing her nipple. “How are you already so wet?”

 

“I’m thinking about who I’m with,” she replies through half-lidded eyes, yanking him back against her, so she can decorate his shoulder with bite marks and kisses.

 

When he pushes into her, her eyes fly shut at the stretching sensation. But then he’s moving slowly, pulling back until nothing remains inside her but the tip of his dick, and she’s moaning because it’s so _unfair,_ before he thrusts back into her soundly. They build up a solid pace, her hips snapping upward to meet his, when she reaches up to cradle the side of his face before interlocking their fingers in the soft fur blanket once more.

 

A delicious heat is building in her muscles. Even her toes are beginning to curl in anticipation when she hears his voice.

 

“Clarke? Clarke? Are you in there? Listen, I know you’re pissed, and you have every right to be, but I need to talk to you! I need to explain!”

 

Clarke’s eyes widen in horror, but Bellamy simply shakes his head slightly. He lays a hand across her mouth, and begins kneading her breast with the other as she wriggles her hips against him slightly.

 

“Clarke! Do I have to come in there? Because I will!”

 

“Persistent little bastard, isn’t he?” Bellamy mutters, quickening his pace as spots of color begin to emerge in front of Clarke’s worried eyes. She fights against completely losing herself to the sensations he’s causing, but she knows that’s what he wants. He starts grunting and groaning much more and more loudly than before, and she digs her nails into his shoulder blades and biceps in retaliation. When his index finger slips between their bodies and starts rubbing her clit in harsh circles, she knows she’s done for. The wave builds in her chest, surges somewhere deep in her pelvis, and erupts along the muscles of her core, which clamp down tightly.

 

“Bellamy!” she calls out loudly into their cocoon of half-darkness, clutching at his shoulders while her legs fall limply into the furs.

 

“Fuck, Princess,” he exclaims before he comes inside her, holding himself against her for a long moment before slipping onto his side, barely suppressing his laughter.

 

They hear the distinct snap of a twig, and then the hurried footsteps of someone moving in the opposite direction.

 

“How could you do that!?” she hisses, as soon as she regains her voice, slapping his chest.

 

He grins down at her, stroking the curve of her sweaty hip before pressing a kiss against her forehead.

  
“Because you’re mine,” he replies. “And I knew I could make you scream my name. It scared spacewalker off without me having to do a thing.”


End file.
